Read Online The Impossible Lives of Greta Wells by Andrew Sean Greer - Free Book Online
Authors: Andrew Sean Greer
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knee. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I sniffed and wiped away my tears, then drew myself up tall. “I have to tell you,” I said. “I’m not myself.”
He winced in pain once again. I felt my hand begin to shake with some surge of emotion; I dropped my cigarette. I was not used to it. Surely in this life, like the last, I was always playing the sober sister. And now—to be the one to break down. It was unbearable. I was reminded of a scene I had once passed on the highway, of a small sports car with a chain attached, slowly and carefully pulling an old truck out of a ditch.
The thing that everybody knows. For Felix, it was of course that his sister had lost her mind.
“There are things,” I said, “that you might be shocked if I told you. That you wouldn’t understand. I’ve seen things . . . I’ve gone places that—”
“It’s okay, it’s okay.”
He took my hand and we were both so cold.
“Felix,” I said. “I’m not who you think I am.”
He looked at me for a long time, taking in the words that I had said. The light changed all around us, glowing on each person in the park, my son, the woman, as if lighting a cast of characters. Then at last he spoke: “Me neither, baby.”
And in those words I heard my dead brother at last.
Then Felix stood up, shaking off the moment. “I have to go,” he said, gathering his coat, then turning. “I want you to meet someone. I want you to come over for lunch next week, Ingrid will be off at her parents’. I have to go.” He looked up with a halfhearted smile, his cheeks flushed with color. “Bubs, I would understand anything you told me,” he said. “Anything.” Then he slipped on the coat, turned back. “Plant you now,” he said, winking. “Dig you later.”
What is it to lose a twin? My brother was not just the boy I grew up with; he was my entire youth. I have no memory without him. From the get-go we were allies in the world, with our own language (a combination of family German and babysitter’s Spanish), our own monsters and deities and doors to other worlds. I understood everything he did, and why. I knew his body and his bravery and his foolishness. Older and older, and nothing was different, no parting, no change. When he said he liked boys, it made so much more sense—after all, I liked boys. So should Felix. We liked everything together. Spaghetti and bratwurst and ketchup. That we could now talk about boys was an enormous relief. And to lose him.
I watched my brother as he walked away through the park, tipping his hat to an old woman in a bright green shawl. Lost to me, again, lost in a brand-new way. But I remembered his words. And, as in a drop of water, within that “anything” a world revolved.
T HAT NIGHT, I assumed that I was saying good-bye to that second world, and treated myself to the possibility that I would awaken in yet a third! And so I held each moment with tenderness. My son kissing me a sloppy good night. Mrs. Green packing yarn into a purse. Nathan brushing his teeth. Strange to see people going about the daily motions of life, when you are the only one who knows it is good-bye.
That night, for instance, as I watched Nathan undress. Undoing the buttons of his trousers—an old-fashioned gesture—and hanging them on a wooden valet as he stood in his high-waisted underwear. Sitting there, nearly naked now, unaware that he should not be doing this, should not be with me, and yet I could do nothing to stop it that would not seem insane. I could not say, “Stop, this is wrong, in my world you don’t love me.” I could not say, “Please don’t torture me.” So I sat there as he removed his undershirt, his undershorts, and stood nude until a pair of striped pants covered him and he slipped into bed beside me, yawning as if nothing had happened at all. A good-night kiss, a “Good-night, love.” And as I closed my eyes, I felt as guilty as a Peeping Tom.
And yet, I awoke the next day to that same
I sniffed and wiped away my tears, then drew myself up tall. “I have to tell you,” I said. “I’m not myself.”
He winced in pain once again. I felt my hand begin to shake with some surge of emotion; I dropped my cigarette. I was not used to it. Surely in this life, like the last, I was always playing the sober sister. And now—to be the one to break down. It was unbearable. I was reminded of a scene I had once passed on the highway, of a small sports car with a chain attached, slowly and carefully pulling an old truck out of a ditch.
The thing that everybody knows. For Felix, it was of course that his sister had lost her mind.
“There are things,” I said, “that you might be shocked if I told you. That you wouldn’t understand. I’ve seen things . . . I’ve gone places that—”
“It’s okay, it’s okay.”
He took my hand and we were both so cold.
“Felix,” I said. “I’m not who you think I am.”
He looked at me for a long time, taking in the words that I had said. The light changed all around us, glowing on each person in the park, my son, the woman, as if lighting a cast of characters. Then at last he spoke: “Me neither, baby.”
And in those words I heard my dead brother at last.
Then Felix stood up, shaking off the moment. “I have to go,” he said, gathering his coat, then turning. “I want you to meet someone. I want you to come over for lunch next week, Ingrid will be off at her parents’. I have to go.” He looked up with a halfhearted smile, his cheeks flushed with color. “Bubs, I would understand anything you told me,” he said. “Anything.” Then he slipped on the coat, turned back. “Plant you now,” he said, winking. “Dig you later.”
What is it to lose a twin? My brother was not just the boy I grew up with; he was my entire youth. I have no memory without him. From the get-go we were allies in the world, with our own language (a combination of family German and babysitter’s Spanish), our own monsters and deities and doors to other worlds. I understood everything he did, and why. I knew his body and his bravery and his foolishness. Older and older, and nothing was different, no parting, no change. When he said he liked boys, it made so much more sense—after all, I liked boys. So should Felix. We liked everything together. Spaghetti and bratwurst and ketchup. That we could now talk about boys was an enormous relief. And to lose him.
I watched my brother as he walked away through the park, tipping his hat to an old woman in a bright green shawl. Lost to me, again, lost in a brand-new way. But I remembered his words. And, as in a drop of water, within that “anything” a world revolved.
T HAT NIGHT, I assumed that I was saying good-bye to that second world, and treated myself to the possibility that I would awaken in yet a third! And so I held each moment with tenderness. My son kissing me a sloppy good night. Mrs. Green packing yarn into a purse. Nathan brushing his teeth. Strange to see people going about the daily motions of life, when you are the only one who knows it is good-bye.
That night, for instance, as I watched Nathan undress. Undoing the buttons of his trousers—an old-fashioned gesture—and hanging them on a wooden valet as he stood in his high-waisted underwear. Sitting there, nearly naked now, unaware that he should not be doing this, should not be with me, and yet I could do nothing to stop it that would not seem insane. I could not say, “Stop, this is wrong, in my world you don’t love me.” I could not say, “Please don’t torture me.” So I sat there as he removed his undershirt, his undershorts, and stood nude until a pair of striped pants covered him and he slipped into bed beside me, yawning as if nothing had happened at all. A good-night kiss, a “Good-night, love.” And as I closed my eyes, I felt as guilty as a Peeping Tom.
And yet, I awoke the next day to that same
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